


Inosculation

by Weconqueratdawn



Series: Inosculation [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Cabin Fic, Declarations Of Love, Domestic, First Time, Hannibal is a happy duckling, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rough Sex, eventual rst, until he isn't, withholding!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Now fully recovered, Hannibal and Will continue to hide out in Will’s cabin. As winter passes, they start to plan for their escape. But Hannibal is still waiting for Will to make his final choices, and is growing increasingly impatient.“No signs of damp,” Hannibal said. “But our future concerns me more. Decisions must be made about what to set aside for our journey. When do you foresee we will leave?”Will shrugged. “Is the decision mine?” he asked. “Why don’t you ask the forest when it will be done with us, like in your folktales.”Hannibal thought back to his autumn wanderings in the woods, when a slow recovery from illness had given rise to childhood recollections of forest games, ones both real and imagined. Will was correct, however - there was still a wait ahead of them. There was much to settle before they could leave the shelter of the trees.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to lordofthelesbians and [wraithsonwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/pseuds/wraithsonwings) for beta and putting up with my endless complaints during writing this
> 
> You probably need to have read the [first part](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7495257/chapters/17035746) for this to make sense :)
> 
>   _Inosculation is a natural phenomenon in which trunks, branches or roots of two trees grow together. Conjoined trees are often colloquially referred to as "husband and wife" trees, or "marriage trees"._

Hannibal was looking forward to spring with an enthusiasm he had not experienced since childhood. The winter had been a harsh one, slowing the metabolic rate of his and Will’s existence into partial hibernation. Quiet survival was their focus - keeping warm and fed, preparing for a journey ahead which neither of them spoke of. Throughout the long dark evenings, the future beyond the cabin and the forest surrounding it had rarely been alluded to. But it waited for them, just over the horizon of winter’s passing.

Storms had drifted snow deep against the cabin. For weeks, they had left its shelter only to shovel it clear and check their firewood stores for damp. The logpile was everything. A fire was their last defence against winter and, as Hannibal remarked, the first defiant step humanity could take towards civilisation. Even the generator they could manage without - the electrics in the cabin were not essential and, with two feet of crisp snow on the ground, the loss of the deep chest freezer would not mean disaster.

Inside the one-roomed cabin, the only source of heat was the log burner and the wood-fired stove. Though well-insulated, on the coldest days it was far from cosy. It mattered little, though, when the daylight hours were consumed with all the necessary mundanities required for survival. Rising, washing, cooking, eating, cleaning, shovelling snow, chopping wood, and then sleep again. All called for a greater expenditure of energy than might be expected, and left them both satisfyingly exhausted by evening.

At night, the fire died to embers and the cold increased. They slept in the same bed, partly for warmth and partly a continuation of their hard-won intimacy. Over the passing weeks, Will had grown easier in Hannibal’s presence. He submitted to the idea of touch between them, if not quite to the touches themselves. A reticence remained in him; a promise made which he couldn’t yet fulfil, and one which Hannibal had chosen not to press for.

The night was a bright one, the snow outside shining with the light of a fat round moon. It illuminated the cabin’s interior, giving it a spectral greyscale beauty. Hannibal lay in bed, Will’s sleeping weight warm and still beside him, listening to the sounds of the forest around them.

From outside came a steady tapping: icicle melt dripping onto the wooden planks of the porch. 

It seemed the thaw had begun.

*

Breakfast the next morning was hearty and hot. Toasted bread, baked by Hannibal yesterday, fried slices of blood sausage, and a little salted fish. The last of the butter had been used long ago, so instead the skillet was placed on the table, hissing with duck fat, ready to be soaked up with bread. A bowl of Bramble’s food was put down, freshly prepared by Will, using scraps Hannibal had left aside for her.

Every day Hannibal fed her a morsel from his own plate - today, a chunk of sausage. For a half-feral dog, she had unexpectedly good manners. Her sharp-toothed muzzle took it from his fingers as delicately as she might her own pup. Will usually pretended not to notice this domestic ritual. The only comment Hannibal had successfully provoked him into making was an expression of faint and silent suspicion.

Hannibal smiled cheerily at him, wiped his hand on a nearby dishcloth, and poured them both more coffee. 

There had been no fresh snow overnight and the skies were clear and blue. The concern now was meltwater, a constant trickle of which could cause more damage to the outhouses and their contents than layers of dry snow. The food store, in particular, needed keeping a close eye on. It was essential for their eventual journey away, over the sea. Replacing it would incur serious risks, and the need to do so was to be avoided at all costs. 

Though the sunlight was feeble, after two weeks’ worth of snow storms it was as if a tropical sun had risen above the treetops. Both of them paused on the porch, savouring the warmth on their faces even as freezing fingers of air slid under their clothing. Bramble, overjoyed to be outside, crashed down into a drift and began searching out scent trails. When she disappeared into the trees, Will called her to heel and strode off towards the outhouses. Hannibal watched her run after him and then followed them both, a few paces behind.

The food was housed in a small, enclosed barn. Crates and pallets were stacked in the centre, filled with catering-sized packets of beans, flour, pasta, oils. Tall shelving ran along the walls and held canned vegetables and meat, as well as dried fruits, salt, and sugar. Months ago, Hannibal had been pleased to discover Will’s stores were mostly formed of simple staples rather than pre-packaged junk food. It might be possible to survive on a diet of high fructose corn syrup and MSG, but it was difficult to thrive on it.

While Will checked the roof, Hannibal pulled out a notebook and began ticking off the diminishing quantities of food from his list. Though he had always been conscious of the need to plan ahead, the thaw made it an urgent issue. Surely now their conversations would turn naturally to leaving.

It was Bramble who heralded Will’s return, trotting into the barn to nose around the stepladder Hannibal was balanced upon. Will’s shadow entered next, stretched out long and thin by the winter sun. It spread out over the floor, growing with the sound of his footsteps.

“Sound as a bell,” Will said. “All good in here?”

Hannibal descended the ladder in slow measured movements. From below, the gaps in the shelves seemed more portentous. 

“No signs of damp,” Hannibal said. “But our future concerns me more. Decisions must be made about what to set aside for our journey. When do you foresee we will leave?”

Will shrugged. “Is the decision mine?” he asked. “Why don’t you ask the forest when it will be done with us, like in your folktales.”

Hannibal thought back to his autumn wanderings in the woods, when a slow recovery from illness had given rise to childhood recollections of forest games, ones both real and imagined. Will was correct, however - there was still a wait ahead of them. There was much to settle before they could leave the shelter of the trees.

“Given that you are the only one of us who knows how to forge a path across the dangerous waters ahead, I would say you should ask the forest, not I,” said Hannibal.

Will snorted at the suggestion. “While you remain content to wait for my signal, I suppose?”

Hannibal smiled and waved his notebook. “I will keep us fed, and you will keep us on course.”

“That’s a lot of trust you’re placing in me,” Will said. “Putting your life in my hands.” 

Hannibal made a seat on a stack of pallets. “Hasn’t it been that way for some time? Besides, who else better to hitch my fate to. Your survival instincts are exceptional.”

“They’ve been sorely tested,” Will said. “Kept sharp.”

“They were honed before I even met you. Sharp with fear. Not any longer.”

“You’ve put me beyond it,” said Will, sitting down beside him. “Not sure I even know how to be afraid anymore. I understand risk, but fear eludes me.”

“You’ve accepted your place in creation,” Hannibal said. The wind pushed at the open barn door and revealed a tangle of bare branches thickly iced in snow. A dull brown bird picked its cautious way through the thicket, searching for the last of the berries. “Natural forces are both egalitarian and competitive. Everything has a chance to thrive. Each to its nature and its niche.”

“Only if the system is balanced. Can we sustain that kind of harmony?” Will said. He looked hard at Hannibal. “Will you take your place amongst the rest of us mere mortals or insist on remaining apart, a lonely god?”

“The concept of loneliness did not arise before I met you.” Hannibal studied the scuffed wooden boards of the barn. There were wet footprints in the dust, made of melted snow. “Now it is an ever-present risk; a poignant counterpoint to the pleasures of your company.”

Will sighed once, deeply. The warmth of him pressed a little closer into Hannibal’s side. “We are both changed,” he said. “What you wanted from me has evolved since your original design. What niche would you have me fill now?”

“If I asked, would you give?” Hannibal said. “Would your lack of fear let you?”

“My survival instincts might not,” Will said. He rose, and stood looking down at him, waiting for Hannibal’s reply. 

Hannibal considered what he wanted, and what he might ask for. What answer Will wanted to give. But it was impossible - though he knew the answer he sought, he couldn’t be sure which question would lead him there.

“Early spring, once the weather settles,” Will said, after a silence had settled too heavily in the chilled air. “Four to six weeks. An ebbing spring tide would sail us out of that creek with little effort. Any later and we risk running into hurricane season at the other end.”

“I will need to check the boat thoroughly,” Hannibal said. “The galley, the equipment, the stowage.”

Will nodded. “If the weather holds, we’ll head down to the lake soon. Start planning.” He looked around the barn, at the piles of food, hidden in the midst of forests and mountains. Discovery could be near, or it could be far far away. “We’d better find a new niche before our old ones catch up with us.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The weather did hold and Hannibal welcomed the return of warmth to the world, however slight, with fervent pleasure. To feel the gentle encroachment of spring while surrounded by the tyranny of winter was exhilarating. The first signs were tentative. The receding snow, revealing sodden earth beneath it; a mulchy damp scent in the air; everywhere the music of running water. However charming, spring in a city did not have the same immediacy or power. It was artless but inescapable; a naive hopeful excitement infected everything no matter how wet or cold or grey it remained outside.

Being out of doors was becoming a necessity. The idea of remaining huddled by the fire seemed oppressive, utterly impossible. The wind was as sharp as ever, but carried with it light and promise. Unencumbered by snow drifts, Hannibal could move freely again, through the wet and rotting leaf litter left behind by the melt. His energy had returned slowly over the winter but now it burst free, as demanding as a small child. Sometimes Bramble joined him, spotting her chance to roam when Will was busy. And sometimes, Will came along too.

On these walks, they spoke little. They had so much time for talking now, and there were parts of Hannibal which Will had placed beyond speech. What good were words when he could rest his hand upon Will’s back and feel his body shift against his palm? Or at night, when Will might burrow close in sleep, so his breath brushed warm across Hannibal’s neck? There was nothing which could give voice to the endless sea which simmered within. It could only be explored piecemeal, glimpsed like sunlight through restless green leaves.

*

Earlier they had returned from a long and rambling walk through the woods, turning back for the cabin only when dusk threatened. Hannibal served a rabbit stew and dried apricots poached in syrup, laced with a little whisky. After devouring her own dinner, Bramble laid peacefully under the table until they were finished. By now, she was familiar with their routine. While their plates were washed and dried, she flopped into her bed of old blankets and watched them through half-closed eyes.

Water for washing was heated on the stove. To save fuel, the temperamental electric shower was switched on only once a day. As usual, Will gave Hannibal first turn in the bathroom, building the fire up for the night while Hannibal washed. After, Hannibal waited in a chair by the fire, with an open bottle of whisky and two glasses.

Will was barely ten minutes before he emerged, in worn flannel pyjama pants and an old sweater, smelling of cheap soap. He took his seat across from Hannibal and sank into silence, enjoying the comforts of a roaring fire and good liquor. Hannibal had ample leisure to contemplate the simple elegance of the glass in his hand, and the beauty of the movement of his throat. There was nothing to be gained, Hannibal reasoned, by pretending not to hunger for every fleeting detail.

“You look less and less like a lonely god,” Will said, after a moment. “And more like one who longs for something.”

“Even from the beginning, I did not place myself above you,” Hannibal said. “Though your potential was unfulfilled, I always saw your worth.”

“Worthy of a throne next to yours?” Will said. “More like a little below it, with me made in your image. If you’re going to rewrite history, Hannibal, there are bigger and better targets.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal conceded. “But only because I underestimated the things you stirred in me. It was not you I didn’t see clearly, it was myself.”

“So that’s your defence,” Will said, not without humour. “You didn’t know what you wanted so you did what you knew best.”

“Hindsight is a privilege.” Hannibal smiled, and raised his glass in a toast. “I am glad we both have the opportunity for it.”

Will flashed a grin into his whisky then knocked it back. “I don’t want a throne,” he said, rolling his empty glass between his fingers. “I don’t belong there. I don’t want to give up my place within creation.”

“Yet you take it upon yourself to balance the scales,” Hannibal said. “What is judgement, if not to be elevated above those you judge?”

“I am capable of judging you,” said Will. “Where would that place me?”

“Unlike justice, judgement is not blind,” Hannibal said. “It stems from passion, not disinterest.”

“God forbid you should receive that,” said Will. “Who knows what else you might do to obtain my interest, passionate or otherwise.”

Hannibal laughed and took Will’s empty glass to be washed. It was warm still, from his hands. “We should go to bed. Another day will be waiting for us tomorrow.”

Will yawned and stood. “Any objections to visiting the boat?”

“None at all,” Hannibal replied. “It will be good to stretch our legs, and breathe a different air.”

Hannibal was already under the blankets by the time Will’s weight settled onto the mattress. He lay down carefully, preserving the scant few inches of distance between them. Before sleep took him, Hannibal pressed his ear to the pillow and imagined Will’s heartbeat thrumming through the bed, pulsing in time with his own.

*

The next day all three of them took the winding path through the woods to the lake. Below the trees patches of frozen snow remained, brittle and slippery underfoot. Bramble ran ahead and waited by the shore for them to catch up. When she realised they were headed for the boat, she dashed along the edge of the reeds and up onto the jetty with a bark.

The pale sun gleamed along its hull, and the breeze tugged at the rigging with a rattling chime. It didn’t take long below deck for Hannibal to grasp the realities of the tiny galley, but he found the stowage more than adequate. Will estimated they would spend three to four weeks at sea, and wanted to take enough supplies to last for six. By the time they stepped back onto the jetty, Hannibal was already formulating menus, thinking of nutrition and calorific values, about variety of flavour and texture.

And also about the realities of being at sea, when this modest vessel would be the only fixed point between the constant roll of waves and an ever-changing sky. Will lingered by a clump of trees at the lake edge while Hannibal looked back toward the boat. They had spent many weeks together in Will’s small cabin, sharing domestic chores, a bathroom, now even blankets and a bed. But it would be a very different thing to step aboard, both fully aware there was nowhere else to go until they washed up together on a brand new shore. 

“The problem with being conjoined is being uncomfortably aware of one’s edges,” Will said, from behind him. “The friction where they meet.”

Hannibal turned. Will had chosen to lean against two trees, growing so close their trunks touched. Just above his head was a gnarled malformation where they had fused together.

“I can still picture the bark tearing, the raw open wounds.” He leaned back to look. The bark was knotted, monstrous. “I used to think of these trees often, when you were unconscious. I wondered what would happen should one of them be felled - be struck by lightning or something.”

“Inosculation,” Hannibal said, examining them. “A natural grafting process where two living trees grow together. Often they are known as marriage trees.”

It was the place Will had kissed him, Hannibal realised. Backed him up against their joined trunks, in an anguish of desire and despair. Weeks had passed since then but the memory was fresh: the dry brush of his lips, his warmth in Hannibal’s arms. The lack of him was suddenly terrible - a rare moment when the part of Will he held onto could not make up for the absence of the part he did not. 

“What happens where our edges meet now?” Will said. “We have already scraped ourselves raw. But there might be much further we can go, more damage to inflict.”

“Do your wounds still ache?” Hannibal asked. “Or does your aching wound you?”

Will dropped his gaze. “Both.”

“These trees have healed,” Hannibal said. “In the end, they found a balm in each other.”

“Trees,” replied Will, “are without motivation or intent. I don’t think the same can be said about us.”

“Do you require a declaration?” Hannibal said. The thought came to him out of nowhere - that his beloved still might not understand how beloved he was.

“I require self-preservation.” Will said, after a pause. He sounded tired. “And so do you. How we both survive together is much more complicated than simply sailing across an ocean.”

Hannibal smiled, despite his frustration. “I have hope,” he said, and meant it.

From further up the lakeshore, Bramble barked, growing impatient. Both of them turned to follow her, to take the path back home.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal had never spent so long in the company of a dog before. Opportunities to study Will with his pack in Wolf Trap had been fleeting. There had been such a quantity of them - a great flurry of fur and animal restlessness, with Will squarely at the centre.

Though she had obviously survived alone for some time, Bramble had settled into their routine with something like relief. Her demeanour was mild and friendly, and she took to Will’s training as if she had simply been waiting for someone to show her the correct way of doing things. Will had explained, one night by the fire, how some biologists believed that it was not humans who had decided to domesticate wolves, but the wolves themselves who had chosen to become domesticated. They had allied themselves with people for the benefit of both species, and in the process changed their own evolutionary path. 

Mutual trust, Will said, was the defining characteristic of the relationship. The sheepdog does not attack the sheep because it has been trained to ignore its instincts, but because it trusts in the rewards of playing its role in the pack. Regular food, a warm hearth to sleep beside, and companionship are worth far more to it than one stolen meal. He blamed the plethora of unwanted dogs on the failure of dog owners to understand this. Training could only be successful where there was an underlying relationship of trust to build up from.

Hannibal was interested to observe this mutuality in Bramble. She had a desire to help, to contribute to their little pack, in ways she had not been asked for. She was fond of exploring and made a point of alerting them to things she had found. Usually it was Will she chose, giving a soft woof or two, growing more urgent until he paid attention. The first time she had sought Hannibal out like this, it had taken him a moment to fathom what she wanted. He had followed her into some bushes and, scratching her behind the ears, sincerely thanked her for showing him the dead and maggoty young rabbit which lay hidden there.

*

Spring was arriving in a rush of foliage and birdsong. The days were still cold but, as long as one wore several layers of clothing, it was pleasant to sit outside and admire the unfurling ferns and stickily-budding branches. The barest wash of pale green across the canopy promised the trees would soon be in full leaf.

That morning, Will had decided Bramble must begin her boat training. If she couldn’t be trusted to live safely on board, she must be left behind - Will could not suffer her drowning at sea or being injured in rough weather. Bramble had listened to this speech with the unquestioning attitude she granted to everything Will did, and trotted off down to the shore without a care in the world.

Hannibal went along also, making himself comfortable under the marriage trees with the aid of a blanket and a book. The cabin was stocked with a good and varied library - everything from modernist literature to the romances of Shakespeare to practical guides to growing fruit. But the book - a selection of John Donne poems - lay unopened, in favour of watching Will at his work.

He began by chugging the boat out a little way from the shore. The aim, as far as Hannibal could tell, was to test Bramble’s reactions when she could not escape onto dry land. To heighten the effect, Will ran through the easiest commands she knew. Sit, stay, fetch, heel. Over and over and over, until she became bored and tired. In the end, she collapsed into a heap on the deck and went to sleep. Will brought the boat back to its mooring and declared the session a success.

After that, they took a break, joining Hannibal on the blanket. Will was flushed, eyes bright and smiling. Just because he could, Hannibal leaned into him, a gentle press of his side against Will’s arm. Will caught his eye, and for the briefest moment all the complexity between them dissipated as easily as early-morning mist.

Will’s gaze fell on the unopened book. “ _I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I / Did, till we loved?_ ” he quoted. “But the real question is, what do we do now?”

“You know what I would do,” Hannibal replied. “What I want. It is you who refuses to be persuaded.”

Will looked at him, long and hard, then surprised Hannibal by bursting out in laughter. “Perhaps you should try asking,” he said, finally. “A simple request, a little risk. It builds trust. You never know, it just might work.”

*

All that evening Hannibal considered Will’s invitation. Could any request he might make of Will ever be called simple? _Admit you belong to nobody but me._ Had he not already done that? _Match my love in depth and breadth and length. Be mine, willingly and joyfully._

_Let me in, the way you have let yourself into me._

The last was the most accurate and also the most painful to contemplate. It seemed to hark back to their very worst betrayals, and Hannibal could not see how any good would come of voicing it. 

In maddening contrast to the mood he had provoked, Will was more light-hearted than he had been for a long while. He talked nonsense at Bramble while he settled the cabin for the night, cleaning the kitchen in preparation for their evening meal and folding newly-clean towels for the bathroom. She lay on her bed and watched him with bright eyes, tail thumping against the wooden floor.

Hannibal was the recipient of a number of frequent and knowing glances, as if Will was amused by the situation he’d caused. Between these he wore a secret smile, one all for himself. In the end, Hannibal decided to take a more direct, less metaphysical route. If Will wanted his request to be simple, then he would reduce it down to the basest terms.

He began with a steady of volley of minor touches - to Will’s shoulder, as he passed by on the porch; to Will’s arm, while they lay the table; and to Will’s back, as he set his plate down. Over dinner, he took it up a notch, lingering his gaze over Will’s lips as he ate. Will noticed all of this and said nothing, just smiled and let Hannibal look his fill.

Finally, Hannibal took his turn in the bathroom and stripped to his underwear only to deliberately return to fetch his nail scissors, left earlier by the bed. Will barely hid his amusement and, when he joined Hannibal by the fire for their usual nightcap, accused him of outright flirtation.

“Has the change of seasons got to you?” he asked. “Spring fever. Caged animals often suffer the worst.”

“What if it has?” smiled Hannibal. “Do the birds and the bees offend you, with their courtship?”

“As if it could be as easy as courtship.” Will shifted in his seat and faced Hannibal. “You think of nothing but different ways to consume me. This is just the latest. Why should I let myself be consumed?”

“You believe yourself prey,” Hannibal said, thoughtful. “Why not a mate?”

Will sighed and set his glass down. “Because I cannot give you what you want. I cannot delight. Remember?”

“You have delighted,” Hannibal said. “And you will again.”

Will shook his head. “How many people will we come across who are so bad that killing them feels good? Not enough.”

“Maybe you over-estimate my need.” 

“Maybe,” Will said. “But maybe not.”

Hannibal faltered a moment. It was time, he knew, to speak. “Empathy is your tether, as well as your curse,” he said. “It anchors you to the world, to creation. Though it impedes your proclivity for violence, I find I cannot imagine you without it.”

Will’s expression changed very slightly; his eyes widened a fraction, his lips parted on an in-breath. A little risk, he had said, builds trust. So be it, thought Hannibal. Holding back was no longer an option. 

“My most urgent concern, more than anything else, is the continuation and extension of the pure understanding which exists between us,” Hannibal said. “Let me love you, and let yourself love me in kind.”

Will picked up his empty glass, wet his lips. Then he reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. His hand shook a little. So did Hannibal’s, when he picked up his glass.

After a swallow, Will said in a quiet voice, “Thank for you for asking. I don’t think I expected you to be capable of it.” 

“Will your survival instincts let you accept?” Hannibal studied the topaz liquid, brought the glass to his nose. It smelled of damp firewood, of burnt sugar. He knew every single whisky he encountered from now until death would conjure up a vision of Will by the fire, frowning over Hannibal’s confessions.

“They need a little more convincing,” said Will. “But perhaps.”

Both of them remained silent and thoughtful until Will had finished his second glass. Unexpectedly, Hannibal felt lighter and more hopeful than such a non-committal answer deserved. When they climbed into bed with perfect synchronicity, it touched something deep within him. He reached for Will, closing his fingers loosely around his arm.

Will halted, looked down at Hannibal’s hand, then shuffled backwards into him. It was an uncomplicated thing for Hannibal to enfold Will in his arms, one under his pillow and one over his body, and to press forward into his warmth.

All Will said was, “Your beard tickles.”

“So does your hair.” Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed in its scent. “It needs to be cut.”

“I can almost feel you smiling,” Will said. “I don’t think I’ve ever made anyone this happy before. Certainly not from anything quite so simple.”

Hannibal really did smile then, broadly, delightedly. “A little risk,” he said. “Who knows what it might achieve.”

He stayed awake to feel Will’s breathing slow and steady, to watch him drift down into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem Will quotes from is the beginning of The Good Morrow by John Donne, a poem/poet both earthy and metaphysical enough to prelude the rest of the fic :)


	4. Chapter 4

Over a short few days, the weather grew unseasonably warm. Will scowled and made disapproving noises about global warming. No doubt he was correct, but Hannibal couldn’t be sorry for it. And, it seemed, neither could the natural world around them. Flowers bloomed, clouds of insects buzzed, life sprouted everywhere. Spring was no longer shy.

They were maybe only two weeks from their departure. Will would not commit to a specific date. Sailing would depend upon the boat meeting his standards of seaworthiness and his faith in the weather - a favourable start to their journey could make all the difference. He was of the opinion the heat would break and be followed by gusty unpredictable winds, but hoped after that it would become more settled and reliable.

In the meantime, all their energy was now spent on preparations. With the lake free of ice, Will worked tirelessly on the boat. First he banked it as far up the pebbly shore as possible and pulled on his waders to inspect the hull. Then it had been the turn of the motor, taken carefully to pieces, cleaned, checked, and re-assembled. Every piece of electrical equipment was scrutinised, every light switch, every bulb. All the pipes and plumbings, the batteries and the generator. In the evenings they made packing lists and in the day Hannibal would add to the organised piles which grew rapidly in the barn, beside the crates. 

Stocking the boat with good, simple food was paramount - things which could be stored easily and cooked without fuss. As much as Hannibal hoped they would have easy sailing and there would be time to linger in the galley, likely they would need access to quick meals. In the meantime, Hannibal fed them both well, depleting the freezer of its rich red meats. There would be little space on the boat for it. 

Though his energy had returned over the winter, Hannibal’s strength was still not what it had been. Shovelling snow and chopping wood had been the only available exercise and he had indulged in these never-ending chores until his shoulders hurt and his arms shook. Now Hannibal turned his focus to increasing his fitness. His daily walks turned into runs, he found improvised weights in the toolshed, he began swimming. Each day he ran further, swam further, while the sun warmed his skin and his hair, grown long, streamed lake water down his back.

One morning he returned to the cabin from his dawn swim, to find Will already at breakfast on the porch. At his feet, Bramble basked in a pool of sunlight.

Will took one look at him and snorted into his coffee. “You look like one of those men who, after a prosperous but shallow career in advertising, take off into the woods to find themselves.”

Now mostly dry, Hannibal shrugged his sweatshirt back on. He had assumed it was an old one of Will’s, but he’d found a small stack of clothing in the shed, brand new and wrapped in plastic. Obviously stockpiled some time ago.

“Maybe that’s not a million miles from the truth,” he said. “But you look the same. Beard. Hair.”

“No, I look like a man who lives in the woods with only a shotgun and a banjo for company,” Will said. “Yours is a good disguise - a man could just as easily go to Cuba to find himself, you know. You’ll blend right in without looking like you’re trying to. It will be me who stands out - it always is.”

*

By noon, the temperature had risen so much that Hannibal packaged up some sandwiches and went to join Will by the lake. They were rich, simple and earthy - remnants of their last joint of venison, thinly sliced with a generous helping of a spiced apple chutney. 

When Hannibal arrived, Will was poking around under the controls in the cockpit, screwdriver held in his mouth. Hannibal climbed aboard and Bramble trotted up onto the jetty, tail wagging, looking hopefully at his parcels. Will gave her a nod of permission and she jumped onto the deck.

“I brought lunch,” Hannibal said. “I thought it would be nice to eat out here.”

“You’ll be bored of it soon enough.” Will sat on the bench beside him and ripped open his parcel.

“You’re determined I’m going to have a terrible time onboard,” Hannibal said. “Maybe you hope I’ll get seasick.”

“Though that would be funny, it also would be very inconvenient.” Will took a huge and ravenous bite. “Don’t you chafe to get away from here, expand your horizons again? It will be worse on the boat.”

“There are things I miss - an instrument, proper drawing materials, a greater range of ingredients. Other than that I have everything I require.”

Will cocked his head disbelievingly. “No minds to work on? Apart from mine, of course. What about your influence in the world?”

Hannibal caught his eye, and said, “I find myself increasingly content. And my horizons are expanding plenty through the delights of your company. Each day I learn something new - about myself, about you, about us.”

Will flushed, and looked away, over the water.

“Do you chafe?” Hannibal asked. “Long to escape into the freedom of the wide open sea?”

“No. That’s what bothers me.”

“No desire to know what waits for us, at our destination?”

“Would it make any difference if I knew?” Will asked. “Better to face what comes, when it comes.”

“You have choices,” Hannibal said. 

“I’ve made them all,” Will said. “All I can do is to delay, or not delay, the inevitable.” He sighed and ducked his head. “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“Will you ever not resist me?” Hannibal wondered.

“If I stopped, then what? Say I made it easy for you, gave you what you want.” He paused, drew in a breath. “You’d get bored.”

Hannibal looked out, across the lake, to where the river led the way to the open sea. From here, it was near invisible. “You are certain you’re going to die by my hand.”

“Aren’t I? You’ve laid your claim, made your promises,” Will said. Hannibal glanced sharply back at him. One hand rested upon his stomach. “One day you’ll make good on them.”

“If anyone is to take your life, it should be me,” Hannibal agreed. “But though I can think of many different endings for us, my preferred are far distant. And all of them happen through love.”

“Your love is not to be taken lightly,” Will scoffed. 

“It is a burden to you still. You haven’t yet learned to live with it.”

“I am trying,” Will said. “It’s not easy. For either of us.”

“Because your survival depends on it?” Hannibal asked, turning away again. “Or do you seek to punish yourself, with me as your instrument?”

“Because this is my life,” Will replied. “And I have chosen it.”

He rose and went to stand before Hannibal. For the first time in memory, Hannibal couldn’t make himself look at him. It was too raw, too painful to be continually denied what he had long ached for. Will grazed his thumb once across Hannibal’s cheek, and then was gone.

For a long while, Hannibal remained silent, looking out at the invisible sea.

*

Out of nowhere, Will said, “I’m going for a swim.”

It took a few seconds for Hannibal to register that Will was not talking to him, but to Bramble. He stood over her, wiping his hands on a oily rag. Bramble had risen from her sun-induced doze and was sitting up with hope-filled interest.

“Want to practice your lifeguard skills again? Yes, I think you do.”

Will stooped to collect her lifejacket from under a bench. When she saw it, she barked, tail wagging. Even from behind, Hannibal knew the brilliant easy grin Will gave her in response. Then he turned, and peeled off his T-shirt. His hands and arms were dirtied, face sweaty and pink from the sun. He wiped at it with his discarded shirt. That was when he noticed Hannibal, eyes fixed on his stomach.

“You’ve seen it before,” Will said, stepping closer. “I keep forgetting you’ve lost those memories.”

The scar was exactly as Hannibal had intended - rough and ragged and permanent. Maybe one day it would fade to something paler, silvery and subtle. It hadn’t yet.

Will moved closer still, to let Hannibal look. In places the skin was raised, puckered, angry. Hannibal would guess there had been a slight infection. And also that Will had not followed medical advice on how to minimise his scarring - though whether by deliberate action or casual neglect, he could not say.

“What did I do the first time?” Hannibal tore his gaze up, to Will’s face, the memory of making it fresh in his mind. How Will had clutched at him, how he had not struggled, only pleaded silently for Hannibal’s forgiveness. Hannibal had an idea the ache in his heart was the same shape as the mark he’d left on Will.

“Exactly what you’re doing now,” Will said. “Looking. Remembering. You were high as a kite on pain meds.”

Hannibal nodded. “You keep it covered. I imagine that’s long been a habit.”

A ripple of tension travelled through Will’s frame. “It can be hard to share it with those who weren’t there when it was made. They don’t understand.”

“May I?” Hannibal raised his hand towards it.

“Ironic you should ask permission now,” Will said, but took another step forward. Hannibal opened his knees, made a space for him to stand in. 

Hannibal brushed his fingertips along its length, gently. Either side, Will’s skin was smooth, unblemished. Will said nothing, even when Hannibal bent to feel it under his lips; to briefly press the flat of his tongue to it, tasting it, feeling its complex texture. Will took one stuttering breath in and that was all.

When Hannibal pulled back, Will was staring down at him, eyes wide, breath quickening. 

A thrill like no other passed through Hannibal. He must see, surely he must see now. He must understand, and he must reciprocate.

Behind Will, Bramble whined, temporarily forgotten. Will blinked, turned and the moment passed. Quietly, he moved away, and Hannibal let him go.


	5. Chapter 5

After that, Will slipped into the water and Bramble had followed with a splash. Hannibal lay back in the sun, eyes closed against the glare. The boat swayed beneath him, in constant and irregular movements which were far from soothing. The sounds of Will’s swim drifted into his thoughts, carried by the ruffled surface of the water. Escape from him was impossible but, even if it had been otherwise, Hannibal would not have chosen it. For Will had almost allowed his longing out, into the open, and Hannibal was determined to meet it again.

Their swim did not last long. Hannibal knew from experience the water was still icy cold, in defiance of the unseasonal sun. The boat rocked when Will climbed back onboard. He moved around the deck with the self-consciousness of someone who knew they were being watched. Bramble did not reappear. Hannibal judged from Will’s regular scans of the shore that she had swum back to the shade of the trees.

They didn’t speak and Will only met his eyes once, by accident, when his attention had been caught by Hannibal removing his shirt. Hannibal looked silently back at him, threw it aside, and lay back down to bathe in the sun’s warmth. Will kept to the other end of the boat, occupying himself with minor tasks. He didn’t replace his T-shirt or make an attempt to cover up his scar by other means.

When Will announced he was going back up to the cabin, Hannibal made a snap decision. At Will’s request, he had asked, had spoken - but it still hadn’t been enough to tip the scales. Perhaps showing him would do what his words hadn’t yet managed to achieve.

Even with a trip below deck to the medical box, Hannibal was right behind him not far from the jetty. It took no effort at all to grip his wrists and shove him bodily forwards against a tree. The skin of Will’s back was still damp and cool to the touch, his scent mingled with traces of brackish water. Hannibal pushed his face into the crook of Will’s neck and inhaled, deeply.

Will gasped and threw his head back, then laughed, realising which tree it was his bare chest scraped against. “Did you plan this? The marriage tree?”

Hannibal bit down with calculated force, enough to make Will gasp again, hands scrabbling over the tree. From somewhere in the near distance, Bramble barked. 

In a loud clear voice, Will called out to her. “Home, girl!” 

Hannibal released the meat of Will’s neck as she ran off joyfully. The bite had not broken the skin but it had been hard. Tooth-marks stood out in a livid red circle; there was a bruise forming at the centre. He could cover Will in them, leave no part unclaimed.

Will hadn’t made any attempt to pull away. He was stock-still, watching Hannibal from the corner of his eye.

Hannibal leaned in towards his mouth and said, “Don’t pretend to be prey, Will. That is not what you are.” With both hands he unzipped Will’s jeans, and slid a hand inside. His underwear was damp from his swim, his length half-hard and heavy.

Will gave a choked-off noise, dug his nails deep into the soft bark.

“Tell me to stop,” Hannibal challenged, massaging him deliberately, coaxing him into full arousal.

Will’s eyelids fluttered shut, he shook his head. “No,” he said. 

“Then tell me to continue,” Hannibal said. “Tell me you want it.”

Will pressed his forehead to the tree and whispered, shakily, “I want it.”

Hannibal didn’t hesitate; there was no time for relief or triumph. He yanked Will’s pants down just enough to bare him, and fastened greedy fingers around the thickness of his cock.

Will hissed as if in pain, but immediately rocked forward with little pushes, into Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal thrust down his own clothes to free himself, and hauled Will flush against him. He stroked him in short rough pulls, his own hardness nestled perfectly in the crease of Will’s ass.

It occurred to Hannibal to finish it that way; to rejoice in the slickness of Will’s fluids over his hand and to mark Will’s skin with his own. To pant out his love and his heartache and his joy over Will’s cheek and, after, to turn him round to seek his mouth so they could kiss themselves breathless. 

But it wasn’t to be so. It had to be all or nothing. There could be no intimacies left to be explored and deliberated over, later.

He withdrew his hand, and Will made a sound of loss which caused Hannibal’s breath to come short. From the pocket of his discarded pants, Hannibal brought out the petroleum jelly he’d taken from the medical kit. He spread it thickly between Will’s cheeks, over his entrance. Will gasped in surprise and clutched at the tree, then spread his legs so Hannibal could breach him. He was very tight, tense; panting harshly and legs trembling. Hannibal rubbed himself lightly against Will’s hip, sucked more bruises into his skin, and felt him give way, piece by gradual piece.

Slowly, Will’s determination grew into pleasure. Hannibal felt each spike of it, in the jolts and stutters of his body, and heard it in the music of his quiet moans. When Will braced himself on the tree and pushed back, impaling himself on Hannibal’s fingers, Hannibal groaned and fisted his own hardness. The back of Will’s neck was damp with sweat; Hannibal pressed his nose to it as Will worked himself on his hand, jerking and gasping, seeking greater and greater pleasure. Will stilled when Hannibal pulled free of him. He smeared more jelly along the length of his cock, and pressed the head against Will’s hole.

Will gave a low bared-teeth growl and raised his hips. Hannibal bore down and pushed inside, just enough so Will could feel the full thickness of his cock.

He would have liked to have been gentle; had imagined it at length, many times. How the buttery afternoon light of Florence would have anointed Will’s flushed skin as they moved together, or how Hannibal would have worshipped him in Cuba, spread out languidly across cool white cotton. But their violent passion needed to be given voice to, before it could settle into murmured endearments and gasps of devotion. Will wouldn’t be able to accept it any other way.

The right way was to be found in Will’s cry of almost-pain as Hannibal thrust home inside him; in Will’s body bowing under his hands; in his fingernails skittering over the tree. Hannibal pressed close, tucked his body around Will’s, and fucked him.

It was base and animal; transcendent and perfect. Sheathed in Will’s hot tightness, their bodies slapping and grunting and gasping together under the sun. Will threw his head back, baring his throat, and Hannibal bit him again, on the thick muscle there. He was surrounded by Will, drowning in the scent of his sweat, his arousal; in the taste of his skin, and the rapid squeeze and slide of him around his cock. Will was slamming back against Hannibal’s hips, muscles straining with the effort of holding himself upright. His quiet moans were now shouts, rising through the canopy and echoing through the forest.

Hannibal clung to Will and fucked him without pause or without thought. The only awareness he had was for how precious their moment of joining was, and for how Will’s skin and flesh and bone seemed to sing in harmony with his own. When he came, Will curled forward with a choked moan, hot spurts of his seed spilling over Hannibal’s hand and onto the scrubby grass at their feet. Hannibal followed soon after, gasping and shaking, helpless.

Neither of them moved; all that existed were their ragged breaths and pounding hearts. Hannibal lifted his head from Will’s shoulder, but kept his arms wrapped tight around him. Will leaned against the tree, forehead resting on the back of his wrists. Hannibal kissed the nape of his neck, once, slipped himself free and went to his knees.

The ground was soft, carpeted in damp leaves. Hannibal’s bare knees sank into them, releasing the dusty scent of the previous fall. He pressed forward, to nuzzle gently against Will’s thighs. Between them dripped his own ejaculate, slowly sliding towards Hannibal’s reverent tongue. Will sighed and shifted beneath him; Hannibal raised himself higher to seek his hole, wanting to taste and worship and adore. But Will tensed, and turned around.

“I can’t, it’s too much.” His voice was rough, his eyes covered by his hands. One of them reached for Hannibal, and stroked his cheek with calloused fingers. “Not yet.”

Hannibal nodded and instead rested his head against Will’s hip. His cock hung inches away, still heavy and sticky; the smell of his spent arousal thick and cloying and beautiful. Hannibal pushed his face blindly into Will’s warm skin, hazy with love, with bliss.

Will tangled and untangled his fingers from Hannibal’s hair, over and over, while the sun shone over them and the leaves rustled in the breeze.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the last one! thanks to all those who stuck around each week and left me ridiculously nice comments, and also to all those who did the same but more quietly - i know you're out there *waves* :)

They walked back to the cabin together. Hannibal barely noticed the landscape change from lake to woods to the clearing where the cabin stood. The sun, the wind, even the earth beneath their feet was insubstantial. There was only Will - the flush which stubbornly remained across his cheeks, the bites and bruises at his neck, and the occasional touch of his fingers on the back of Hannibal’s hand. They had said nothing since they left the tree; only stared at each other, wordless, and walked on.

Bramble was waiting in her bed. Her tail thumped happily against the floor when they went inside. Hardly half an hour had passed since Will had ordered her home. He smiled and petted her, filled her bowl with food, then tugged off his clothes and climbed into bed. Hannibal followed automatically. 

Later, he had a shadowy recollection of repeating _I love you, I love you_ into Will’s mouth, and of Will’s continual reply: _I know, I know._

After that, they slept tangled around each other, like animals trying to keep warm.

*

When they woke it was dusk. Bramble was restless, thrown by the change in routine. Once she saw them stir, she trotted over hopefully and pressed her nose into Will’s side. Will glanced at Hannibal; his face went soft and apologetic before he swung his legs out of bed. They both rose, to wash, and to find something to eat.

Will banked the fire and then stayed on the floor, stroking Bramble’s belly when she flopped down beside him. Hannibal watched from the kitchen. Everything in the cupboards, the little refrigerator, seemed flat and uninteresting. Without meaning. Tonight, of all nights, should have been marked with a meal both intimate and sublime. But the part of him which cooked, which feasted, remained by the fire with Will and couldn’t be made to turn its attention away.

Will came over, just as Hannibal was wondering if this was how it would be from now on; if he would ever feel whole with more than two inches of space between them. 

“Grilled cheese,” Will said. His hands came to rest at Hannibal’s waist, their touch warm and heavy. “Just make us grilled cheese. That’s more than good enough.”

Hannibal nodded. He brushed a thumb over Will’s mouth, through the thick prickle of his beard, then kissed him. Will smiled and, when they parted, sliced bread and grated cheese until Hannibal took over.

They ate at the table, licking grease from their fingers. The night settled slowly over the cabin, and with it came a holy kind of silence. The wind was low; the branches didn’t sway, the trees didn’t creak. There wasn’t even a clock to mark the passage of time with steady regular ticking. Will didn’t bother lighting the lamps - as soon as they had finished, he took Hannibal back to bed.

His skin was smooth and warm; he was demanding and full of need. This was the only feast Hannibal wanted. Will’s arousal hot and hard and insistent, the firm ridge of him sliding over Hannibal’s tongue. His sticky salt-musk flavour filled Hannibal’s senses; he breathed it in, swallowed it dissolved in his own saliva, thought about all the molecules of Will he could consume this way. Will thrust into his mouth, until Hannibal was sure he was going to spill, but Will urged him up and off, saying _fuck me again, I want to see you._ And then Hannibal was pressing inside, finding him still loose and slick. Will’s thighs wrapped tight around his hips while Hannibal fucked him just as hard as before, until Will’s cock pulsed and he came in thick sluggish spurts. Hannibal licked it from his skin, moving slower, deeper, shuddering to his climax with the taste of Will’s come fresh in his mouth.

Afterwards, Will lay back and allowed Hannibal explore every nook and cranny of his body, as long as it didn’t require him to move. There was drying sweat in the dip of his clavicles, damp tufts of hair under his arms, a wet slick mess of fluids between his thighs. Hannibal sought out stray smears of come on his chest, sucked his softening cock clean. He could have thought Will asleep if he hadn’t broken the silence with a sudden laugh.

“You’re like a dog,” he said. “You want to put your nose in everything.”

Hannibal smiled back. “A wolf who has chosen the rewards of the pack.” He planted a lingering kiss to the inside of Will’s thigh. Will reached for him in the darkness, and Hannibal moved up the bed to lay beside him.

“Anyone who thinks you’ve been domesticated is fooling themselves,” Will said, rolling towards him. He put his hand on Hannibal’s chest, rubbed his fingers through the hair there like it was fur. “What awaits us, over the sea? I’m ready to know.”

Hannibal grasped his hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing his palm and then his wrist. “There is a house, by a beach,” he said. “A modest one. One which will not attract attention, not for a couple of American ex-pats, anyway.”

Will snorted, the sound half-smothered by Hannibal’s shoulder. He grabbed a handful of Hannibal’s long hair and tugged at it. “One of whom has gone there to find himself.”

“What about the other?” Hannibal said. “What is he there for?” 

“The other is his long-suffering partner.” In the dim light, Will was barely more than a silhouette with a gleam where his smiling teeth were. “Who has weathered many whims and many similar schemes in their long association. He is world-weary, but content. He has finally found a peace and wishes to hold onto it.”

It was Hannibal's turn to laugh. It grew out of a fondness so aching, so exquisite, with roots so deep, it should have been painful. He wrapped Will in his arms, and sought his mouth in a kiss.

Will pulled back, after only a moment. “And what then? What will we do there?” he said.

Hannibal looked into his face, into features so familiar he might as well be looking in a mirror. He understood many things he had barely grasped until now. Before they could move on, an offer had to be made, and accepted. A vow, of sorts. One they were both conscious of.

He pressed another kiss to Will’s lips, and said, “I will keep us fed and you will keep us on course.”

A crease crumpled Will’s brow. “You really meant that?”

“Whatever course you steer, I will follow,” Hannibal said. “Though, we should keep a quiet steady one for a while. We could easily attract the wrong kind of attention. I too have gained much and have no wish to lose it.”

Will stared back at him. “Good,” he said, finally. And then, just before he pulled Hannibal into a searching kiss, “Yes. Yes.” 

*

It was just past dawn when Hannibal opened his eyes. Will was burrowed into the pillow, watching him. His bites and bruises were blossoming reds and purples, clustered at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Hannibal skimmed them with his fingers. Will pushed back hard into the touch, and whimpered a little when doing so hurt. Hannibal dug his fingers in deeper, making him gasp, then broke off to kiss them reverently.

Will lay back, and ran his hands uncertainly over the bits of Hannibal he could reach. Eventually they settled, one fisted tight in his hair, one clutching his arm.

Hannibal rose up on his elbows to gaze down at him, cupping his cheek. “Seeing you like this brings home how long I have loved you,” he said. “And how long I will love you for.”

Will’s eyes brimmed. He didn’t speak, just nodded, his hand tightening painfully around Hannibal’s bicep. They drew close, Hannibal sighing into his hair, Will’s fingers tracing the brand on Hannibal’s back, over and over.

It was Bramble, looking for her breakfast, who forced them to move. Will fetched it while Hannibal cooked. Something had changed in him overnight - an old wound had healed. He felt more whole than perhaps he’d ever been.

They ate on the porch - eggs, toast, and some bottled tomatoes, drained of oil and fried. The sun was blazing already, birds were singing. Everything in the forest was green and alive and glad of it.

Just in front of them, under the cover of the trees, appeared a stag. It arrived so suddenly, so completely, it could have been there for some time only Hannibal had not noticed. In the deep shade of a spreading elm, it seemed almost black.

Under the table, Hannibal touched Will’s knee. “The forest has sent you a messenger,” he said, directing his attention towards the stag. 

It was meant as a joke, but Will regarded it seriously and at length. “So it has,” he said.

For a moment, they watched the stag and the stag watched them. Its liquid eyes glinted once in the sun, then it stepped back and melted away into the forest. Presumably, it cantered away to join its herd. But Hannibal had a feeling it was still there, just beyond the treeline, its antlers masquerading as branches.

Will took a long sip his coffee. He looked at peace. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “The forest has released us.”

They set sail the very next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end of this series, as i want to restrict it to this little bubble of foresty-solitude, but i'm planning a fic set in the future of this verse for #itsstillbeautiful in august, should anyone be interested :)
> 
> thank you everyone for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr post for this fic](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/161969901952/chapter-66-inosculation-weconqueratdawn)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and decided to let me know by leaving kudos or commenting - it means so much :)
> 
> There's another fic which follows this one - not strictly a sequel but set in the same 'verse. [It's called Morcilla and you can read it here :)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11858670)
> 
> You can find me screaming about Hannibal on [tumblr](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/)


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